


Not This Time

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Youtube RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Caretaking, Caring, Concern, Crying, Delirium, Exhaustion, Family Feels, Fever, Fever Dreams, Influenza, Introspection, Isolation, Loneliness, Mid-Canon, Multiple Selves, Nausea, Nightmares, Panic, Sickfic, Sleep Deprivation, Vomiting, Vulnerability, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 06:51:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15455718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: Without fail, Jackieboy suffers terrible nightmares when he gets sick, so he opts to go without sleep. Of course, this doesn’t exactly help along his recovery…





	Not This Time

He wouldn’t sleep. Despite it all, despite the heat flashes sweeping over him in droves and the headache that made him feel like his skull was being kicked by a steel-toed boot, Jackieboy couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes. If he did, he knew exactly what would be waiting for him in his dreams and he wasn’t willing to face that. Even so, he couldn’t deny the sticky, prickly sense of exhaustion dragging itself over his back like a persistent cat’s claws.

 _I can’t. I won’t. Not this time_. Though he should have been relieved that crime was at a low, allowing him to stay at home, he almost longed for a mission to appear just so he could have the distraction and the surge of adrenaline to keep him awake.

It always started with the fever. Henrik was working double shifts at the hospital, Marvin was performing a show and Chase and Jameson were out filming for Bro Average, so no one was there to be at his call. He had been forced to drag himself out of his room and stumble down the hall toward the lab, fumbling through the cabinets for one of those one-minute thermometers. The cold plastic wouldn’t be nearly as kind as Henrik’s hand on his forehead, but it was something and he really did need to know how high his temperature was.

After slipping it under his tongue, he’d made the mistake of sinking down into Henrik’s large, padded chair and leaning on his desk, resting his chin in one hand. As he’d waited, he let his eyes go lazy, sweeping over the far wall without really seeing it. Without his permission, its dull, lackluster gray paint had fallen darker through his flickering lashes…

The piercing beeps of the thermometer were his saving grace, startling him upright before he could nod off entirely. The instrument had slipped from his mouth as he gasped, clattering on the desk, and after disorientedly patting after it he’d managed to confirm what he already knew: 102.4℉. His fever was already worsening, but even if it hadn’t been, it wouldn’t have mattered. It never mattered how high or how low his fever was; every single time, without fail, the nightmares came for him.

Most of the time he was able to convince the others to leave him when he was “resting”, so none of them were there to see when he heaved awake, his heart racing so fast that it could have torn out of his chest. He didn’t want them to see him like that and frankly, he didn’t want to put them in danger if he used his power to lash out at a fever dream. More than that, however, he didn’t want to see them die yet again to the monsters in his mind. He just couldn’t face it this time.

From the lab, he made his way to the kitchen, reminding himself to hold onto the wall with every step. The coffee he found in the pot had long since gone cold, but it was loaded with caffeine and that was what mattered.

It was exceptionally hard to swallow, the cold tickling his throat and making him cough deeply. Once that first hitch was set free, the next several followed, lurching him forward and splashing what was left of the coffee over his knees. Nausea trailed down his esophagus as his fit subsided, his thin, shallow wheezes joining forces to become a jaw-cracking yawn.

 _I’m not tired. I’m not tired_.

He was. He could feel the weariness hanging on him like an anchor as he shakily leveled himself to his feet, biting back a whine as his aching body cried out against the motion. It dragged against his every step, lengthening the hallway. His bedroom was right next door to the bathroom, just three steps farther, but he couldn’t bring himself to make it. If he did, he’d be too tempted to collapse onto his bed and then there wouldn’t be any chance of escape.

To his relief, the bathroom blessed him with cool air from the vent overhead as he sank on top of the toilet lid, leaning sideways against the edge of the counter and trying to keep track of his breathing. They were loud and thick in the silence, grating on his ears despite the fact that it felt like the air never reached his lungs.

How long he sat there, he didn’t know. Time was passing at a crawl and in a chilling flash, his hazy mind brought memories tumbling and jumbling to the forefront. He could easily relive the endless days when he had been in this house with no company but the whine of the stupid AC vent overhead. Today, he knew he possessed a family, brothers who would come back home to him if he waited long enough, but back then?

There was no one to turn to. Every time he returned from saving the city, it was to a dark and empty hallway with ownerless bedrooms that collected dust. How many times had he been slumped in this bathroom, his hands shaking from shock as he stitched his own wounds, biting his lip against the pain until it bled too?

He wasn’t meant to be like this. He wasn’t meant to  _break_  like this. He had spent so long breaking and breaking and breaking, rebuilding himself so he could break again—He couldn’t bear to be like this.

As that remembered sense of pathetic, vulnerable helplessness washed over him, the hero’s chattering teeth barely suppressed a whimper and burning tears slithered softly over even hotter skin. The emotion, the sickness, the sleep deprivation—it was too much. His vision was nothing but a wet smear of lights that were too bright for his sore eyes.

They transformed into the lights of the lab as he lifted his head from the cold operating table, chest heaving with quick, shrill breaths as he sat up. Adrenaline was already pounding against his temples and churning silver light into his eyes; to his core, he could  _feel_ something was wrong.

 _How long was I out?!_  Jackie wondered in a panic as he struggled onto his elbows and then to an upright position, his vision swimming dangerously along the way.  _How long was I—?_

As he slid onto the floor below the table, his bare feet splashed in something warm, sticky and wet. The smell of metal assaulted him and his breath caught in his throat as his wide eyes panned around the room, to each of his brothers.

Dead. All of them lay in twisted, unbreathing heaps, lifeless eyes staring away at nothing, their faces stained with the same blood he stood in.

“ _No_ …” he choked out, the strength draining from his legs and forcing him into a kneeling position. “No…please, please wake up…Somebody wake up…”

Cold hands latched onto his shoulders without warning, drawing a jump and a sharp cry from him as it began dragging him back, muffled voices bombarding his ears faster than he could process them. Slurring broken curses, he fought, straining to lift his weakened arms and reach out for one of them,  _any_  of them.

“Don’t!” he wailed, his voice breaking as he threw himself forward against the grasping, clawing grip. “Don’—Don’ do it, don’ take ’em from me! I’m not gonna let you take—Let me  _go_ —!”

“Jackieboy—Bro, please, stop fighting me! You’re going to hurt yourself!”

Chase’s voice echoed somewhere through the fog of delirium and panic, but it was the glancing stab of pain as his fist hit the marble countertop that brought him out of the dream and back into reality. Disoriented, he recoiled, tumbling off his perch toward a painful union with the floor.

“Hey, hey! Take it easy!” Chase exclaimed worriedly, his arms wrapping tight around Jackieboy’s heaving chest to steady him as he lowered him onto the bathroom tile. The sweat and heat clinging to his body were alarming and he shook his head hurriedly, looking out toward the hall. “Schneep?! Dude, you need to get in here! Jackie’s really not doing so well—”

“I don’—Let—Lemme go, I don’ feel good,” Jackieboy managed to stutter, wresting away from Chase’s arms to throw the toilet open and duck his head into it. He didn’t heave violently, to their mutual surprise, but he didn’t have to; he just needed to open his mouth enough for the cold coffee to come back up burning. Someone gently swept his bangs back from his forehead as he did so, but he couldn’t tell if it was Chase or not.

When he finished, black spots of dizziness swirled across his vision and he coughed weakly, leaning his head against the toilet seat. It was only moments later that a soft, vast covering fell over his shoulders, swathing his shivering form in warmth that soaked into his back almost instantly.

He released a shaky breath of relief, blinking hard, and when he found the strength to lift his aching head, Marvin was crouched beside him, adjusting the folds of his black cape more comfortably around him. Jackieboy tried to say something, something to let him know how relieved he was to see him, but he couldn’t. Fresh tears threatened to surface as Henrik arrived, skirting around the agitated Chase and softly ordering Marvin to scoot aside so he could bend down and offer him some water. When the doctor coaxed it to his lips, Jackie could only stomach a mouthful or two before ducking away.

“…I’m awake,” he croaked out, despite how his glazed eyes flickered as he returned his head to its resting point. “I’m fine…”

Judging by the skeptical glance they shared, they didn’t believe his words, but that in and of itself was fine. They were  _alive_  to disagree. That was what mattered.


End file.
